The Caribbean Orchid
by Angoliel
Summary: James Norrington is a privateer, in the employment of EITC. Not exactly what he wanted, but better than being a pirate. When he comes across a young pirate who wants to leave the past behind, how far is James willing to go to help? Cathington.
1. Desperate Times

**Summary: James Norrington is captain to _The Avenger_, and a privateer. His redemption seems not to have gone as planned, but it's still better than having to be a deckhand to a pirate ship. His adventures at sea lead him to cross paths with a young pirate who will do absolutely anything to leave the past behind. How far will James go to help a person who seems to have the same ambitions for a better life? **

**Author Notes: ** I don't own it, and if I did, I think I'd be too busy playing with…ah, trimming, Norrington's beard. Didn't think I was good for anything other than Lord of the Rings romance, eh? Well, I'm back, and this time I'm not going to disappear for quite awhile. I hope that you enjoy the makings of an epic adventure of romance and a little bit of tragedy, with the help of my good friend Mercury Gray. And I hope you'll like my original character, too. I put a lot of love and heart into her. Without further ado…

* * *

"Cold and foggy when it happened. Late it was, too, 'f I remember aright. The holds were fair burstin' with Spanish gold from the five ships we'd taken at sea. Aye, and the captain was in a particular foul mood that night. Too long at sea, some said. I say his sword be itchin' at his hip that evenin', and he was ready for a good fight." 

Crew members stopped working and slowly made their way toward the Mr. Fletcher. The man had a flair for ensnaring the imagination quite well. Sailors would swear he should have been the court jester in England. Or at the very least, a traveling storyteller. A few sailors sat nearby, waiting with wry grins. On their last port, _The Avenger_ had acquired new crewmembers, a few which were young men who had visions of grand adventures. They had heard of their captain, and thirsted like dying men for water for the tales.

"An' so there we were, in the middle of the seas, with naught but the lanterns for light. N' out of the darkness there comes this wail like the depths of hell was calling us to our doom! The cap'n doesn't bat an eye, no sir."

"What'd 'e do, Marse Fletcher?" asked a young gunner who had recently joined the crew.

"Well, the wailin' goes on for some time, all ghost like. Ever one on deck is getting mighty afeared. But the Captain, he just tells us to clear for action, calm as a frozen fishpond he was. And then, there's this whistle and the mast splinters and falls right in front of him! So _then_ we knows there be another ship about te kill us, and we get those guns cleared double quick, d'ye ken? And sure enough, it's the _Devil's Apprentice_, with Black Samuel at the helm, laughing like he was Old Harry hisself!"

New crewmembers looked at each other as if Fletcher had just blasphemed God above. "Ye mean, Cap'n took on the _Apprentice,_ sir?"

"Aye, he took 'em on. Cap'n don't fear nothin', even the hurricanes of Jamaica. 'E'd laugh at the devil hisself if he could, n' I says he's already donnat least twice."

"Contrary to whatever tall tales Mr. Fletcher may tell, gentlemen, I assure you that I have never laughed at the devil," the captain said as he appeared silently from below decks and approached with an eerie calm. "Now, about your work!"

"But sir!" said Fletcher. "I was just gettin' to th' good part!"

"There will be time enough for stories when we're in a pub, Mr. Fletcher," answered his captain calmly. Fletcher looked up at the hard green eyes of his superior and knew that now was not the time to play the crew's buffoonish jester and make a scene.

"Aye, Cap'n," Fletcher assented quietly, standing and following the man after a wordless motion of his hand signified he wished his presence at the helm. And yet the first mate muttered that he stood by everything that he'd said. If one or two more crew members respected him because of Fletcher's outlandish tales, thought Captain James Norrington as he ascended the stair, what harm came from that?

"Captain, sails off the port bow!" cried a sailor from the crow's nest. James turned his head sharply, walking closer to the rail to have a better look out to sea.

"Mr. Fletcher, the spyglass," he called to the first mate, who trotted over as fast as a heavy-set body would allow him. All the sailors looked up expectantly as Captain Norrington pulled out the spyglass and gazed into the distance. "There goes the far-seein' sea god again," a deckhand chuckled, wondering if they'd get more Spanish gold to set their hold to bursting.

"What do ye see, sir," Fletcher whispered, standing a little behind James and squinting his eyes. For a long moment, the breeze blew as his captain was silent, watching the horizon hungrily.

"I see..." Norrington murmured at last, a wry grin on his face, "a ship with no colors."

"Pirates, then," Fletcher asked, astounded, before a chuckling grin appeared on his face. "Thought we'd got the last one near two weeks ago."

"All hands, prepare for battle!" shouted Norrington as he snapped the spyglass shut, turning on his boot heel to make way to his cabin, where he kept his pistols safe.

"Cap'n, who we be goin' to fight and confiscate goods fr'm this time sir?" Fletcher asked, having followed Norrington to badger him for information. "And shouldn't we be runnin' up our colors?"

"No colors,' Norrington said shortly, loading his pistols and readying his sword. "Let them think we are fellow pirates; give us an element of surprise. And I'm sure you've heard of _The Saint,_ Mr. Fletcher?"

The first mate crossed himself. "God ha' mercy, aye, sir. Raided me home port not too long ago, I 'eard. Killed me cousin and hurt lotta families I knew."

"Here's your chance to inflict some justice, Mr. Fletcher," Captain Norrington said mirthlessly as he handed his first mate a loaded pistol.

Aboard _The Saint,_ the crew scrambled madly for arms, hungry for a victim at last within reach. Pistols and muskets were loaded and distributed, swords and cutlasses loosened at the hip. No one noticed when a single figure backed up against the wall of the captain's cabin, trying to hide, unwilling to take up arms and contemplate the pillaging of a ship. Not until the captain himself shoved a musket at the figure, sneering.

"Ye'll not get away with trying to hide so easily, Cobb," he growled, making sure his crewman took the weapon.

"Who said hiding was easy, Captain Flynn," asked Cobb sourly, trying to mask distain.

"I'll not hold with lazy slugs aboard me ship, Cobb. Or were ye thinkin' of goin' into the captain's private stores while he was gone?" Flynn asked evilly, stepping close enough so that the young pirate had to turn head to avoid the stench of the captain's breath. It was obvious he wanted an answer.

"Why would I," Cobb replied, getting some spine, turning and looking at the captain with a cold, hateful light in those tired brown eyes. "Your private stores, nay, your entire cargo hold can't possibly be worth as much as what you've already taken from me. It's no use for me to be lookin' through it."

"Another word from yer bloody trap, and I'll be sure to take it from ye again, Catie," Flynn leered, staring down the weaker of the two. "And ye know I won't be so quick about it this time. The humiliation of it'll stick 'n yer stubborn head longer."

"We'll see about that, Flynn," Catherine Cobb muttered under her breath as the captain stomped away, giving orders right and left. It had been a bloody year since she had first met Flynn. A year ago when he had promised to take her back to England, away from the Caribbean port where she grew up. At seventeen years of age, Catherine was now utterly disillusioned about sea adventures and pirates. There were no dreams now of living in London in a fine house. No hope of a friendly, civilized society she could be a part of. Bitterly, she realized all too late that she had thrown it away when she took Edgar Flynn's hand and ran to _The Saint_, her head filled with false promises.

And here she was on the deck of a pirate ship, dressed as a man in tattered clothes; a musket in her hand, a sword at her hip. Catherine had learned the hard way how to run a man through with a sword, especially if he was coming at her with his arms outstretched and his eyes wild. She taught herself how to shoot straight, load a musket or pistol, how to care for these things that would keep her alive. No one else was going to do her the favor of saving her hide.

"Make ready the guns!" Flynn shouted as nearby pirates scattered like a school of fish when a shark approaches. The captain pulled out his spyglass and had another look at the ship they were approaching, which seemed to have been dawdling along since he looked last.

"'O we takin' this time, Captain?" a wide-smiling pirate asked, gleeful to be in action once again. Flynn looked through his spyglass again, studying the prow of the ship he would soon splinter to thorns in the sea.

"Ne'er seen the likes of it, Mr. Roberts," Flynn replied at last. "But she sits heavy in the water, like she be weighed down with a lotta cargo."

Mr. Roberts and Captain Flynn watched with confusion as the ship they approached turned toward its starboard side and presented itself as a very easy target. Further confusion ensued as the distant rumble of canon fire sounded, and the whistle grew louder until the two ducked to barely miss the shot that took a bit of the railing from _The Saint._ Righting himself, Flynn looked through his glass again.

"We be bearin' down on _The Avenger,"_ he growled. "Let's give 'er a taste of 'er own medicine. Bear to starboard and run out the portside guns! Give 'em the sting o' _The Saint!"_

The ensuing battle was long and desperate. Neither _The Saint_ nor _The Avenger_ would give in easily, and both captains were determined men, each accustomed to having their victory. Cannonballs whistled to and fro, the ships splintering under them as the crews fought each other fiercely after _The Saint_ had been boarded. Catherine never had time to reload her musket, and so used the butt of the weapon as a club until she lost her grip on it. Unsheathing her sword between fighting foes, she looked about her. It would be the perfect time to escape, in the confusion of battle. Making her way to the ship's railing, Catherine took a last look about her as if to make sure her escape was secret. _The Avenger_ had somehow escaped much damage, and was currently a preferable ship to _The Saint_'s condition. Catherine convinced herself she could hide in the cargo hold and stowaway until it came to a port. Then she could start a new life, away from the sea; away from pirates; away from Flynn.

A crewman of _The Saint_ recognized her and leered. "Where ye goin', Cobbie?" he asked, knowing that particular nickname irked her to no end. "Runnin' away?"

"If ye try to stop me Tom, I'll run ye through," she replied dangerously, pointing her blade at him. Her black hair that had been in a loose braid now looked wild as an island native's gaze.

"Try it, Cobbie, ye know I'm a better swordsman," Tom replied, swinging his sword at her, making quick jabs to make her back up until she was at the edge, near the plank where _The Avenger _boarded her. Catherine looked over her shoulder, trying to right herself in a properly balanced attack position when Tom lurched forward, having been shot in the back of the head. His body fell upon her and Catherine fell backward, screaming at the loss of solid wood beneath her feet before taking a deep breath in preparation of hitting the water. Tom's body was still over her, forcing her underwater with its weight. The water helped lift him off her, but her pushing him away was impeded by the same thing. Catherine kicked her feet, swimming to the surface, her limbs moving slowly as if in a terrible dream. How far had she sunk already? Why couldn't she seem to break surface?

At last, her head broke through the water, her lungs sucking in the air desperately. Looking up, she could see that the battle on deck was less intense. Swimming closer to the hull of the ship, she climbed up the side, pausing to take a breath at the top. Gasping in surprise, she felt a pair of hands take hold of her and haul her to her feet. Catherine would have made protest, if not for the naked blade near her neck. Apparently, the crew of _The Avenger_ had won the sea battle. Catherine's brown eyes searched out who was alive and found Captain Flynn in a very small knot of his sailors, trying to barter for his life. The coward.

"The ship is ours, gentlemen," said Norrington, "and all its contents."

"Three cheers for Captain Norrington, who's given us victory again!" Fletcher cried with glee. The crew cheered their captain and went about confiscating whatever was left that remained undamaged. Catherine looked around her and quickly worked out a plan for saving herself. Surely it could be done, with the proper cajoling.

"Captain," she said, not daring to move. The sailors that still held her shouldn't be provoked to slicing her neck. Captains Flynn and Norrington looked toward her.

Norrington looked surprised for only a moment that a young woman was being held as a pirate. After Elizabeth willingly chose piracy as her lifestyle, he couldn't possibly be surprised by anything anymore. "And I suppose you're going to barter for your life, much like your former captain?" he said curtly. He had learned not to underestimate the power of the female intellect.

"Yes," Catherine replied bluntly, boldly looking Norrington in the eyes. She could hear Flynn growling.

"Catie, ye traitorous bitch!" he snapped. Norrington turned to his first mate.

"Mr. Fletcher, see to it that he does not curse in the presence of this woman again," he announced carefully. Mr. Fletcher nodded and pulled out a still loaded pistol, cocking it at Flynn menacingly while his captain stepped toward the young woman. Catherine remained still, submitting to her capture calmly even as her mind furiously worked to lay down her plan for survival and escape from Flynn.

"And what do you propose, madam," Captain Norrington asked, pursing his lips, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Sir, I'll do anything to get away from Flynn and his crew," Catherine replied, trying to be as convincing as possible. She spat seawater as she punctuated her words with urgency. "I nivver wanted to be a pirate in the first place."

"Anythin', love?" asked the sailor to the right of her, who was grinning at not only the advantageous view he held of her bosom, but the way her wet clothes clung to her body. Catherine shrank away from him when his hand slid down her back to rest on her backside.

Captain Norrington sighed heavily and took his pistol from his belt, clubbing the sailor over the head. Cate shuddered away, whimpering in submission in case he decided to use the pistol on her as well. Norrington turned to the other sailor who held her, holding up the butt of the pistol. "I won't hesitate to knock some sense in you as well, if you make such a comment as Forbes did."

His crewman nodded and stepped away from the captain. No one gainsaid Norrington and escaped the consequences when he was angry. He turned back to the young woman. "Is that why you were fighting against our crew, then?"

Catherine visibly deflated, her eyes dropping to the deck of the ship. "I was tricked into bein' a pirate sir," she said hatefully. "It was either fight yer crew or…bear the consequences."

Norrington seemed to consider her words for a moment. "Your name is Catie?"

"Catherine Cobb, sir," she replied, hope springing in her heart. Her plan was working! She'd get away from Flynn at last!

"Catherine Cobb," Captain Norrington amended, lifting his pistol and loading it as he spoke. "How badly do you want to get away from being a pirate?"

Catherine paled when he began to load his pistol right in front of her. Gunpowder spilled onto her foot, sticking to it because of the wet. Taking a gulp, she licked her dry lips and focused on his face so she wouldn't be afraid of what was sure to come next. "I'd kill to leave this life, Captain," she said forcefully, trying to keep her courage.

Norrington smiled wryly. "How convenient for you to say," he chuckled mirthlessly as he finished loading the pistol and offered it to her. "Would you do the honor of killing Captain Flynn, then?"

Catherine's hands shook when she took the pistol. The metal was hot from the sun and its recent use, and dried the palm of her hand. Looking at Captain Norrington, she realized from the hardness of his green eyes that it was either going to be Flynn or her to take that bullet. And Catherine meant to live.

Looking down at the young woman, Norrington saw the fear in her eyes. He also watched the fear being swallowed up by a fierce, cold desire for life. The girl cocked the gun and aimed at Flynn.

"Catie," Flynn said in a warning tone, as if he would break away and strangle her. "Ye'd shoot yer own captain?"

Catherine's brown eyes suddenly hardened, steeled against his mocking voice. Against whatever would come and stand in her way. She had left a good life, to follow a man who never meant to keep his promises to her, and she intended to force her way into an even better life, if she could. This shot would begin her pilgrimage back to civilization.

"Ye were never _my _captain, Flynn," she answered dryly. Pulling the trigger, Catherine's hand jerked back, and Flynn fell to the ground, his face in a sooty contortion of what it once was. Lowering the pistol, Catherine looked on the mangled, bleeding mess of the man that was once her captor.

Beside her, Norrington nodded quietly to the crewmen who were nearby, signaling them to take the rest of the prisoners below. "Mr. Fletcher, clean up this mess," he commanded, stepping over Flynn's dead body. Catherine looked at the retreating form of Captain Norrington and threw herself at the railing, retching over the side before she too was lead to the brig.


	2. History

Read chapter one for disclaimers.

* * *

Catherine Cobb sat cross-legged in her cell, in the corner furthest from the crew of _The Saint._ Thank God they had seen fit to separate her from them. In what fading light from the sun's setting that filtered through the cracks of the ship's planks, they looked ready to murder her were it not for the bars between them. If they hadn't seen her betrayal of them, they'd been told of it from someone who had. She still felt sick from the sight of Flynn's face after she'd blown it off that afternoon. 

The man who had been called Mr. Fletcher came down to the brig and jangled a set of keys to separate the one he wanted from the rest. "Up ye go, miss," he said cheerily, unlocking her cell door. "Captain Norrington wants a word with ye over a platter 'n mug."

"Take 'er, and I hope he kills 'er," said one of the pirates in the opposite brig. "After what she did te us…bloody Judas, _she_ is."

"Well, serves ye right te be pillagin' and plunderin' and takin' a young girl along wit' ye," Fletcher smiled, not bothered by the murderous tone in the least. Catherine quietly followed him up the stairs and to the captain's cabin. Fletcher opened the door and bowed in an endearing if not comical way.

"Don't be skeered, missy," he whispered when he straightened and saw her hesitate. "Our captain's not a nasty bloke. Rather fair n' 'is judgments, if I say so meself."

"It's that exactly I'm scared of," she replied before she stepped in. Catherine caught a flash of a sympathetic smile before he shut the door after her.

Catherine Cobb looked about her, taking in the comfortable cabin that belonged to _The Avenger'_s captain. It was not opulent as a rich man's quarters, but neither was it bare. Every accommodation was provided to Captain Norrington, she found. From a simple table now filled with several dishes, to a bookshelf and desk strewn with maps and instruments and in an inner room, a reasonably sized bed. From that inner room strode the captain himself, smoothing out his dark brown hair into a ribbon and tying it back at the nape of his neck. When he saw her he smiled politely and bowed.

"Miss Cobb," he said, indicating the chair on the other end of the table. A deckhand who had been setting the table and filling the wine glasses pulled the chair out for her and held it while she sat. Saluting his captain, the deckhand left at a nod from Norrington. Catherine felt out of place. What did he want to talk to her about? Why did he call her to his cabin? She kept her hands folded in her lap, waiting for him to speak.

Captain Norrington helped himself to the platter of chicken, cutting into the breast. When he offered it to her, she refused. He set the platter down and went on to the bread and fruit.

"Come, Miss Cobb, you must be hungry," James prodded. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Day b'fore yesterday, I think," she replied, her voice hollow. "But I don't really feel hungry, sir."

"Some bread at least," he said after another few moments of silence. He looked up at her, his eyes searching her face. She looked tired and still in shock. "Are you sorry you shot your captain?"

Catherine suddenly looked up at him, the shock from the afternoon's events replaced by a feral hate Norrington was troubled by. Oh, he'd seen it in men's eyes, right before a battle. It didn't belong in the weaker sex. Looking again, he took note that she shook, whether in agitation or some other great force of emotion.

"No. I'm not sorry," she answered after taking a deep breath to master her voice and emotions. "I'd been waitin' to kill that bastard e'er since he threw me down on the deck of his ship and took me again' my will, right i' front of his crew."

The force of her answer and the weight of her words shocked Norrington. The fact that a woman had cursed in his presence, coupled with the knowledge that a young girl had been taken advantage of troubled his gentleman's nature. But he quickly unknit his eyebrows and returned to his meal.

"Tell me how you came to be a pirate," he asked quietly, taking a bite of his poultry.

Catherine sighed and reached for a piece of bread, picking at it and eating very small bits at a time as she spoke. "My mother died last year. Six months before that, me father sailed out of port. Nivver seen 'im since. After me mother's funeral, I started workin' as a washerwoman with a friend o' the family. Mrs. Tavington. She was nice to me. Let me stay with 'er and 'er family so's I wouldn't be alone."

Catherine took a drink of wine and fell silent, and Norrington found himself interested in her history. After a few moments of her nibbling at the bread quietly, he encouraged her to continue. She sighed again.

"I met Flynn at the market one day. 'E found out where I lived and took up visitin'. 'E started talkin' about how he sailed most of his life, and he'd usually come back to tell stories about the islands he'd seen. I told him how I wanted to go back to England. Flynn told me he'd take me, but I'd have to leave wit' 'im quick and not say anything te anyone. Said it'd be like the old tales the Greeks made up about their adventures."

Catherine paused and started laughing. Captain Norrington looked at her closely and watched her face contort as she fought sobbing. "After I got aboard _The Saint,_ he turned into the devil 'imself," she gasped between sobs, trying to control herself. She failed miserably and wept as she continued. "He'd say that if I didn't do whatever I was told, he'd beat me. One day, b'fore noon even, he got drunk an…we'll, I a'ready told ye that part. Made me life mis'rable, n' his crew followed ev'rything 'e did. 'ad to clean up vomit n' other leavin's for 'em. Cook'd fer 'em too. Aye, 'f I had been able to, I'd have poisoned their vittles and left 'em te die.'

Norrington sat at the other end of the table, his fork and knife in hand and yet unable to bring himself to eat. Her story was exactly what he would have liked to tell Elizabeth when she was younger, had she not already made up her mind that she wanted to be a pirate and go on adventures. How she got lucky and chosen to affiliate herself with a crew as clumsy and yet as fortunate as that of the _Black Pearl,_ he would never understand. Catherine Cobb's experience wasn't so serendipitous and in his heart, Norrington wished he had not given Sparrow that day's head start. There might have been the end of pirates that day, if Jack had hung. Or at least, he would have kept his commission.

Catherine twisted her shirt, pulling it away from her so she could dab her eyes. But she couldn't stop crying. Norrington stood and went to her, offering her a frayed handkerchief. She took it and covered her face with it, her 'thank you' barely heard over her hiccoughing.

"If you were to go to England, what would you do," he asked her quietly. Catherine took deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself, her elbows resting on the table.

"Mother ran away with Father to be married," she said after a few moments, still quietly hiccoughing. "I don't know nothin' about her folks other than they lived near Brighton. I suppose they're the only family I got, now."

Norrington began to pace the cabin, rubbing his bearded chin thoughtfully. He stopped suddenly at the desk where his maps of the Caribbean ocean and the English Channel were. Taking up his sextant, he marked his position and moved it slowly toward the English Channel, calculating in his mind how long it would take to arrive there.

Catherine had by this time slowed her tears and was taking deep, gulping breaths. Putting a hand to her head, she leaned on her elbow which rested on the table. Heaving a sigh, she realized that she felt much better now, after she had finally told someone, _anyone_ what had happened to her. She straightened when he turned back to her with a small smile.

"We are currently positioned five and a half days northeast of the Bahamas," he began. "It would take quite a long time, Miss Cobb, several months in fact, to make a journey to England. But, if you agree to it, I will return to Long Island and restock as well as dispose of our less than friendly passengers before I make the crossing."

Catie's brown eyes went wide in surprise. "I…" she began before closing her mouth with a snap. She tried starting again, but the words didn't come to her. After looking at the captain, whose arms were folded across his chest as he leaned against his desk, she suddenly became suspicious. "I'd hoped to mebbe convince ye to take me back to Long Island where I could look for me own passage home. Why are ye bein' so kind, sir?"

"Because I believe in young women being protected against such scoundrels as you fell in with, Miss Cobb," Norrington replied, going back to his chicken which was now near cold. "It would sit ill with me if I simply returned you to Long Island with no place to stay, no money not even a chaperone to guide you. Therefore, I take it upon myself to escort you where you belong."

The girl simply sat in her chair dumbfounded. This man was possibly the nicest person she had ever met in her life. She had made expectations out of small favors and received something on a grander scale. Such charity made her eyes itch yet again. She looked up at Norrington with a grateful smile. "Thank ye so much, captain," she said quietly. "I don't know how I'll ever repay ye for yer trouble."

Norrington ignored the pregnant offer. "While we're at Long Island, I'll see to it you have better clothes, more suited for propriety. I won't tolerate your dress any longer than I must."

Catherine suddenly felt as if she offended him by merely being in his presence. She blushed and looked down, pulling up her shirt so as not to reveal so much skin, tucking it everywhere she could to make herself more presentable. Norrington looked up from his plate, watching her fidget and allowing himself half a smile. Even after the time she spent with pirates, she still seemed to care about someone's good opinion enough to try to be pleasant.

When the meal was over, Captain Norrington stood and wordlessly went to the inner room and reappeared with a white bundle in his hands. "You've had enough, I think, of sleeping with unkempt men, Miss Cobb," Norrington said, going over to his desk where his tri-cornered hat lay. "You will be sleeping in my cabin until we reach Brighton."

"Oh. But…"

"Don't contradict me," he said evenly. His green eyes scowled at her, daring her to make him angry. It made Catherine back away a step.

"Aye captain," she replied meekly, her eyes dropping to the floor. He turned on his boot heel and opened the door. Just before he pulled it shut, he heard a hurried. "an' thank ye!"

The return to Long Island was uneventful, and the lads all gave a shout of hurrah when they were told to return to the ship in a week. Supplies had to be bought, goods sold or traded, and a young ward to be taken care of. Norrington found in Catie Cobb a submissive and pleasantly thankful girl, if a bit unrefined. He had Fletcher take care of the trading of most of the goods, but he took some of the gold for himself to purchase two or three dresses and a couple of hats for Catherine. The poor girl didn't know what to answer when he asked her for preferences of color or design, and so the shopkeeper and his wife took charge and matched swatches of fabric to Catie's hair and her browned skin, making sure that everything was within the captain's unyielding price range.

It was the tailor's turn to become flustered when he was told that he had less than a week to complete two cotton dresses for the young miss. But one look from those challenging eyes of the captain's, and he wiped away the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and nodded fervently.

Next was the hat shop. Catherine had asked the tailor's wife for samples of the fabric they would use to make her dresses and quickly learned how to match the design to a proper hat. Norrington stood by and let her have a certain amount of freedom in her choice, but carefully held the last word concerning prices. He became increasingly approving of Catherine when she dutifully overlooked some of the more attractive hats and kept to things more simple and practical.

When Norrington had paid the proprietor and stepped out onto the cobblestone street with Catherine, it was near noon. Making their way through the small market square to inquire after rooms at an inn, the captain of _The Avenger_ went to a cart with various fruits and paid for two peaches, offering one to Catie with a sedate smile. She took it and rubbed it on her shirt before taking a huge bite, the red juice dribbling down her chin. She seemed either oblivious to the dark red stain now making its way down her neck, or she didn't care.

"Here," he chuckled, fishing the worn handkerchief out of his pocket. "You're worse than a child."

Catherine smiled sheepishly as she wiped the juice away. "I'm sorry," she apologized before making a confession. "I ain't had a good day like this in well ov'r a year."

Norrington bit back a sarcastic comment when he turned to look at her. She really did seem to be enjoying herself, and truly thankful for the hats and dresses, however cheap he had made sure they were. He cocked a smile, trying to help her be happy. "I hope you have more good days, then."

The next week passed in an unhurried state of quiet. Norrington stayed at the inn, across the hall from Catherine and invited her to knock on his door or send messages to him if he was conducting business in town. When _The Avenger_ was ready to make way, Norrington escorted Catherine to the tailor's shop to get her clothes. The tailor and his wife looked extremely tired, but they meekly offered Norrington the dresses he commissioned and were glad to take the payment he gave and a little extra. "For good work in such a short time," he said.

The tailor's wife took Catherine aside and gave her a third dress box. "I thought you'd be needin' some underthings, dearie," she whispered. "So I've got you a nightshift, some stockings and what not. Oh, and there's a pair of buckle shoes, too."

"Oh, yer awful kind ma'am," Catherine smiled. "I really am sorry we rushed ye so…"

"Oh, it was good for us. Not like we get too much business anyway," the woman waved her off. "And your lordship's payment was quite alright. You needn't worry."

By the time Catie and Norrington returned to _The Avenger_, the crewmen were already weighing anchor and hoisting sails. Norrington began to give orders sternly before turning to Catherine.

"Go into my cabin and make yourself comfortable. Change, if you like," he said. He was surprised when Catherine smiled like a giddy little girl and kissed his cheek.

"Thank ye, Captain Norrin'ton," she beamed before rushing into the cabin with her dresses and hat boxes, awkwardly trying to keep them all in her hands. "Fer ev'rythin'!"


	3. Rum and Reconciliation

Read chapter 1 for disclaimers.

* * *

Captain Norrington paced the deck of his ship, his hands clasped behind his back as he oversaw the crew in their work. Not that they _needed _his oversight. Norrington had insisted Miss Cobb use his cabin as her quarters. There had been an unspoken understanding however, that if Norrington needed to consult his maps and charts, she would yield the cabin to him, and vice versa if she needed privacy or rest. The captain of _The Avenger_ seemed to his crew to be easier to irritate now, and took up odd habits, pacing the deck being one of them. It was as if he were avoiding his cabin altogether, or trying to, at least. 

Fletcher took great amusement and interest in the way Missy Cobb and his captain interacted. Whenever she tried to strike up a conversation, she would put her hands behind her back and look up at Norrington (who incidentally towered over her five foot five inch stature) with a pleasant smile. Fletcher would chuckle every time Norrington sighed heavily at "being disturbed" or rolled his eyes at her "childish behavior". Finally, Fletcher decided to do a bit of meddling and perhaps do them both a favor.

"I think she fancies ye, captain," Fletcher said one afternoon after Norrington's shortness of temper forced Miss Cobb to retreat into the cabin.

"She's getting to be a damn nuisance," Norrington replied testily, looking up at the sails to gauge the wind.

"Aw, that means ye likes 'er back!"

Norrington whirled about and faced his first mate, a stinging reply on his lips. It fled as soon as he saw Fletcher's insolent smile. The first mate knew that Norrington refrained from insulting the older man, whom he looked upon as a rather favored uncle. Fletcher quite frequently spoke all manner of things that would have been very much out of line had he not the good will of the captain and much of his respect. He went to the railing of the ship and leaned against it, watching Norrington like a hawk.

"Still, she _is _very fine," Fletcher began, earning himself a rather annoyed sigh from the younger man. "Not full of figure jest yet, mind you, but 'er face 'as that sort of…girlish charm about it what makes men weak in the knees…"

"Mr. Fletcher, not only is this conversation inappropriate, it is degrading to Miss Cobb, whether she be present or not," Norrington interrupted harshly. "I suggest you fill your head with thoughts of your work."

There was a crackling pause in which Fletcher squinted at Norrington. "An' what will _yer _head be filled with, Captain?"

Norrington looked ready to use physical force, and actually stepped toward Fletcher threateningly. The older man began to chuckle madly and went on his way. Captain Norrington sighed, leaning his elbows against the railing where Fletcher had been. Looking out at the sea, he squinted at the sunlight which reflected off the water.

The crew had been leering at him lately, a thing which made Norrington testy as he watchfully guarded against signs of mutiny. Nearly halfway into the crossing to England, the captain could not afford the complete and utter obedience of his crew. Fletcher's insinuation was what he feared the rest of the crew might suggest to him…or worse, take upon themselves to _show_ him what they thought of their passenger.

Yes, Miss Cobb was quite pretty, once she had scrubbed away some of the grime from her face and at least made an effort to comb her hair presentably. Norrington's irritation increased when he caught himself simply looking at her for merely the sake of looking. Her eyes were brown and trusting, like a doe in the woods. Her cheeks were round as if she had somehow retained some of the plump flesh one has while still a babe in arms. Fletcher's prodding would have been all well and good except she looked younger than she said she was.

And Norrington? Well, _he_ looked even older than he was. At thirty years of age, he had bags under his eyes, a beard that covered half his face, hair he couldn't be bothered to comb nicely unless he was in port, yellowing teeth and a firm fondness for brandy (which he kept hidden in a locked drawer of the desk in his cabin). The fact that his crew seemed to have a belief he should be thinking of a seventeen year old girl who looked fifteen made him feel as if he were forty.

At least, Norrington thought thankfully, he still had his good vision, the use of all of his limbs and had only lost one of his back teeth to the butt of a musket. At least he could still wield a sword and not be impaled by it. At least he had enough of a presence, enough of an air of authority that his crew still obeyed a command when he barked it.

Norrington's jaw clenched when he thought of the _other_ reasons Miss Cobb should be kept as far away from him as possible. Her admiration for him would soon pass, for surely it was nothing more than the tremendous gratitude a young woman has for a rescuer. And Norrington felt he had enough of women. His first foray into the romantic world was not very kind to him. If he had entered into it paralyzed with fear, he left it disenchanted. His hope of marrying a beautiful young woman was dashed instantly the moment he realized _she did not want him._ He learned his lesson, and looked at all women, pretty or not, as potential assassins after he had quit the presence and even the memory of the greatest thorned rose of them all.

That evening, Norrington ate with his crew, a habit he had gotten them accustomed to. He ignored the periodic nudging everyone made, the knowing glances they thought he couldn't see. Finally he threw down his wad of bread into the swill they called stew and stomped his way to the decks. He needed some brandy.

Catherine Cobb had just finished her soup and was munching on what bread she had left when Captain Norrington threw open the door of the cabin and demanded he have some privacy while looking at his charts. Catherine looked up at him oddly.

"Captain, ye've been lookin' at 'em almost ev'ryday for the last week and a half," she said. "Have ye lost yer sense o' direction, or sumpin'?"

Norrington grew more irate. He didn't feel the need to explain himself, especially to her. Taking her wrist, he pulled her toward the door and pushed her out with such force Catherine had trouble keeping herself upright. He slammed the door shut, and Catie Cobb was left on the deck of the ship, staring bewilderedly after him. The crew had quietly come from below deck and with tittering grins, simply watched. Catherine turned around and almost cried with embarrassment at seeing them.

"What'd I do?" she asked, half pointing at the cabin. Fletcher went to her.

"There now, Missy," he smiled, using the endearment she seemed to like. "Captain's just a wee bit tense these days. Nothin' ye've done, of course. 'E gets that way sometimes, when we been too long at sea without a fight."

Fletcher helped her sit on a barrel, hoping to quell the tears that were sure to come. Patting her hand, he caught sight of Mr. Tanner and motioned for him to bring up a bottle of rum.

"'E bloody hates me, that's what," Catherine was saying. Fletcher turned back to her, a horror stricken look on his face. "Can't be bothered te be civil te me when we talk. 'E acts like I'm more trouble than I be worth…why don't 'e just chuck me into the ocean if 'e 'ates me so bad?"

"Aw now, Missy," Fletcher smiled, not even taking his eyes off her as he took the rum from Tanner. "'Ere, 'ave a good drink. Ye needs it."

Catherine took the bottle of rum and looked at it, then looked at Fletcher, and the crew members who had quietly come closer to circle about her. Fletcher took the bottle from her again and wiped the rim of it with his shirt cuff, blowing on it before he gave it back.

"Now, no need te worry yer pretty head 'bout 'im," Fletcher went on as Catherine threw her head back to drink a sharp gulp of the rum. She grimaced as the burning liquid went down her throat and coughed as she wiped away the droplets that escaped down her chin. She set the bottle between her knees, forlornly rubbing the fabric of her cotton dress. "We likes ye, and there's more 'f us than there is 'f 'im!"

Catherine looked at Fletcher as if she wanted to believe him, but didn't just yet. One of the crewmembers lightly punched Fletcher's arm with a sudden idea after sending a man down to the bunks. "'Ere, she needs some cheerin'. What d'ye say to a good jig, Miss Cate?"

Fletcher had been making sure she nursed the rum well, and turned to the crewman with a wide smile on his weathered face. The surrounding crewmembers clapped the man on his back for such a wonderful suggestion. It had been a long time since any of them had a rousing jig, and with a lady present, it would be even more fun! The man who had been sent back below returned, pulling a fiddle out of a tied sack. While he tuned it up, Fletcher took Catherine's hand and nearly pulled her off the barrel.

"Will ye dance with me, Missy?" he asked in so gentlemanly a manner she laughed. Catherine still held the bottle of rum by the neck and bobbed a curtsey.

"Aye, Mr. Fletcher," she said, taking another swig.

Norrington was knocking back his third tumbler of brandy. He had a wonderful head for drink, and pushed his limits often. The screeching of a fiddle had been going on for some time, and he made the effort to ignore it…until he heard the delighted squeals of girlish laughter. Norrington frowned, looking at the door of the cabin. His curiosity got the better of him, but not before he poured a fourth glass of brandy.

Quietly opening the door, he leaned against the frame and watched as various crew members either sat on barrels or the railing of the deck, clapping in time to the fiddle, or wove about in a jig, a bottle of rum being passed around as if it were a partner. There was Fletcher, that rotund son of a sea cook, and Tanner, the ferret-faced deckhand who laughed like a monkey.

And there, skipping lightly between all of them, hooking her arms through the arms of this man and that was Catie Cobb. Her hair had come loose from the braid she had badly made and was flowing freely to the middle of her back. In the light of the rising moon, she danced without buckle shoes or stockings, carefree and, as Norrington peered, more than a little tipsy.

The jig ended abruptly and Norrington looked on with annoyance as Catherine suddenly toppled to the deck with her partner. Striding over he picked her up easily and looked at the now silent crew. "The evening's festivities are over. Time to retire now," he announced with finality. Catherine was giggling at his side, the sight of her jig partner still on the deck too much for her as she clung to Norrington's arm to save her from falling again. The crew nodded quietly, shooting playful smiles at Miss Cobb.

"Hope we cheered ye up, Missy," Fletcher said before disappearing below deck. Catherine giggled again and waved.

"Aye, thank ye!" she replied before Norrington helped her into the cabin and closed the door.

As soon as the door was shut, Catherine immediately began to resist the help Norrington offered her even as she swayed. She flailed her arms batting him away constantly. Finally she cried out in frustration.

"Let me be!"

Norrington paused, surprised at her outburst and then reached toward her to steady her again. She slapped at his hand.

"I said let me alone! I know how ta get into bed meself!"

Captain Norrington glared at her, unable to think of anything to say. For all the girlish charm she held when she was sober, she made a mean drunkard. Catherine blinked at him crossly, wobbling about as the ship moved. What she said next was an unexpected blow to him.

"Ye've made it ver' clear ye can't stand me, so why're ye standin' thar starin' at me like I'm some sort 'f..'f kraken?" she said forcefully, her voice rising in pitch as she grew more and more agitated. "Mist' Fletcher always tol' me ye were a fine man. Wall, fine men don't rail 't women, 'specially 'f all they wanna do is find out more 'bout ye, 'f only fer curiosity's sake. Ain' _me_ fault yer so imposin' I don't know how te star' a conversation wit' ye!"

"Miss Cobb," Norrington said calmly, his voice like ice.

"Yeh, yeh," she mocked, crossing her arms over her bosom, mimicking his tone. "Yer way outta line, Miss Cobb. Take some rest, ye sodding drunk!"

"I didn't…"

"Oh go away!"

Her voice was so angry, so defeated. He blinked at her like an owl before taking up his hat from the desk and bowing. "Goodnight, Miss Cobb," Norrington said, closing the door behind him. He cringed when he heard the impact of glass on solid wood. He turned and saw flecks of liquid sliding down the cracked glass of the cabin door. There went his good brandy.

In the middle of the night, Norrington still couldn't sleep. The conversation he had…well, the conversation Catherine shouted to him was still playing in his mind. Was she really interested enough in him to be asking about him? Why the hell was Fletcher telling her things about him? Was her childishness merely the result of her being shy?

Swinging out of his hammock, Norrington pulled his boots on and pulled himself above deck for some fresh air. He strode aimlessly on the decks until finally he leaned against the railing. Looking down into the water, he saw fishes in the moonlight. Some of them came close enough to the surface they almost broke through the water. Propping his chin in his hand, he looked down into the water with a smile.

Suddenly the cabin door opened and Catherine Cobb rushed out, throwing herself against the railing on the opposite side. Norrington grimaced sympathetically as he heard the appalling sound of her heaving. Dear Lord, for one so meek and childlike, she sure could vomit. Norrington quietly went to the barrel of water and uncovered it, dipping the hollowed out serving gourd and going over to her now quieted but shaking form. Gently, he offered her the gourd of water. She took a long draught and thanked him. As soon as she saw who it was, however, she shoved the gourd back into his arms and spun away, making to go back into the cabin.

"Catherine," Norrington spoke into the night. He berated himself for using her Christian name, but it was the first thing that came to mind to get her to stay. "Might we talk?"

Catherine paused, her hands fidgeting as she turned toward him. Pursing her lips momentarily she struck up the pose she always had when addressing him, with her hands demurely behind her back. "I've...I made a fool o' meself," she said quietly.

"You spoke your thoughts," Norrington replied, his thumb absently running up and down the smooth gourd. "Do you…always have such decided views, or have they been repressed?"

Catherine looked down and sighed, moving toward the railing again. "There's lotsa things I wish I could say," she admitted, fiddling with the cotton dress she still wore instead of her nightshift. "Not all of them are what ye call proper thoughts for a lady. Me mother'd blush if she knew what I really thought sometimes…but I suppose I think like a pirate. I can't help it, ye know. After the things I've done, an' the…things what happened to me, I feel like I'd set meself te explodin' if I didn't get 'em out."

"Was tonight one of those explosions?'

"I suppose," Catherine said. She quickly looked up at him. "But, sir, that didn't give me no right, no right atall te be shoutin' at ye the way I did. Ye deserve more respect than I gave ye."

Norrington looked down at Catherine and saw her innocence once again. But it was shaded by something more intense now. His knowledge that she could be a passionate, spirited girl took away a degree of his seeing her as impossibly naïve. He could now imagine her pretending to be simpleminded enough to wind a fellow about her little finger, only for him later to find out she could be as capricious as the sea itself. It was a notion that truly discomforted Norrington, considering he was trying to forget another changeable woman.

But then, with that wild dark hair framing such a sweet face, it seemed his fear was a long way off. Norrington smiled.

"I deserved it, Miss Cobb," he replied, turning to look out at the sea again. "I had no right at all to treat you the way I did. I sincerely apologize for my rude behavior."

There was a pause in which the sea breeze ruffled through their hair, cooling them both. Catherine looked down in the water and watched the fishes swim about, smiling absently as she thought.

"I forgive ye, Captain," she murmured in reply, looking up at him. "But, will ye forgive _me?_"

Captain Norrington smiled back at her, his rough hand covering hers gently, signifying their reconciliation. "I do."

He offered her some more water, which she drank quite greedily before he helped her back into the cabin. Norrington suddenly remembered the broken bottle of brandy and brushed aside the shards of glass with his foot. Not trusting that he had collected it all out of the way, Norrington scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the cabin.

"It's a wonder you didn't step on it coming out," he said, half to himself. Catherine sighed, her arms around his neck and her head on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry about your bottle…"

"Enough apologies," he interrupted. "I'm sure you did me a favor. I perhaps shouldn't be drinking so much brandy."

Catherine chuckled as he gently put her in bed, drawing the covers over her. Drowsily she looked up at him, catching his hand to wish him good rest.

"Good night, James," she murmured. Norrington quirked a smile; Fletcher must have dropped his name during their talks.

"Goodnight, Catherine," he replied, squeezing her hand. Closing the door to the cabin, Norrington was oblivious to the quiet snooping of the night watch, his first mate Fletcher, who cocked a wide grin and nodded approvingly at his captain as he returned belowdecks.


	4. Admiration

Please read chapter one for disclaimers. A belated Christmas gift to all my readers, who put up with my long absence and lack of updates. Sorry for the shortness of this update, but I'm working as best I can!

* * *

The storm rose about them, whipping the sea spray like needles into their faces. Norrington had seen the gale coming, and had prepared the ship for the worst. Yet it seemed, as Fletcher swore, the wind was blowing them back the way they had come. Captain Norrington was determined to at least hold what waters he had already come through, if he could not best the wind.

Catherine had been commanded to stay in the captain's cabin and keep herself as warm as possible. Norrington went to her after seeing to the helm for a time. Blown in with the wind, drenched, miserably cold and frustrated. The wind was pushing them backward, whether he liked it or not. Catherine looked up at him from her position on the floor, equally miserable.

"Are you well, Cate?" he asked, employing the friendly nickname they had wordlessly agreed upon. "You look positively green."

"I ain't used to sailin' in a storm, Captain," she replied weakly.

"You mean to say _The Saint_ never came upon a storm at sea?" Norrington asked incredulously.

"Flynn kept to the islands and made sure to port when there was talk of stormy waters," Catherine said.

"He was more coward then I had thought," Norrington murmured disdainfully, sitting near her. She looked up at him with an almost apologetic smile.

"Any luck out there?"

"None of the sort," Norrington sighed. There was a pause. "It will take us longer, I think, to reach Brighton."

"Mebbe I shoulda been better with me fear o' the Almighty," Catherine said quietly. "Me prayin' might do some good."

"It's just as well," James chuckled. "I haven't been God fearing lately either."

There was a silence between them in which Norrington closed his eyes and listened to the creaking of his ship. Catherine watched him, comfortable with the friendly quiet they shared. Much of his hair had been blown out of the queue and hung about his face, slightly curling as the water dripped from it. Rivulets of water ran from his forehead down his long nose and dripped from the end. He pursed his lips and covered his face with both hands, wiping the water away and brushing back his unruly hair unsuccessfully.

"James," Cate murmured quietly. Norrington opened his eyes and turned toward her, smiling wearily. Catherine looked at his green eyes. There was a sadness about him that made her want to cry for his sake. As if his whole life, he had been defeated. Yet there was also a calm strength in them; as if those defeats didn't matter. As if he was still searching for something, and he would weather whatever storm would come his way. Cate suddenly remembered her question.

"How long ha' ye been a seaman?"

James chuckled again and closed his eyes, hiding his green irises momentarily. "A very long time," he replied. "But I still remember the day I first boarded a ship. I had always wanted to be lost in the beauty of the sea. I wanted adventure, honors, recognition for being a hero."

James turned to her again, and Catherine saw again the great defeat in his eyes. "The sea gave me everything. And then she took it all away. I hope for your sake, Catherine, that you find everything that you are looking for. And that you keep what you are given."

Norrington's hand had sought hers while he spoke. When he fell silent, his large, calloused, wet hand squeezed hers almost affectionately. Cate was at a loss for words and could only return his gaze. Finally, Norrington sighed.

"I should go back to the helm," he said, standing. Catherine looked at her damp hand and then at the watermark he had left before watching him leave. She could only see his back, his broad shoulders squared, his head lifted and ready to face the storm he was about to walk into.

Cate couldn't help but admire this man who had seen so much in life, who had gained everything she sought. Fortune, a good standing in society, powerful friends. And all of it had been taken away, he had said. Catherine shivered, but recognized a small desire to be like him. To be strong, persistent, unyielding and yes, stubborn. Catie allowed herself a small smile as James Norrington closed the door behind him. That was one trait they perhaps shared.


	5. Issac and Abigail

At last, they've gotten to England! I hope you all like this chapter. It's been a rough ride (no pun intended) and the story has made a lot of changes (to be seen later). James Norrington is so freaking hard to write!

* * *

As soon as the lookout had shouted "Land ho!" Cate had been excitedly looking port side at least a hundred times a day. Norrington told her it would be at least a day through the English Channel before they would port at Brighton. At last, England! Cate walked about chattering senselessly, giggling like a schoolgirl and had taken to bouncing on the balls of her feet when she wasn't flitting here and there.

Norrington was glad they had finally reached their destination. It had been a long journey, and the men were restless to be on shore. Yet watching Cate's elation made him realize that he had grown accustomed to her being near him. He'd gotten used to her shy questions, her girlish smile whenever she talked to him. He'd gotten used to her poorman's accent, her slang, even her blush when she realized she'd said something she shouldn't have. In the refreshing knowledge that he had finally achieved his goal, there was a sense of sadness. She wouldn't be there anymore. He supposed it was him just being a silly, sentimental bastard.

They ported late in the afternoon at Brighton, and the crew started getting agitated even as they went about their docking duties. Norrington straightened his better coat and tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Damn thing never _would_ stay in the ribbon he had wrestled with for the past quarter of an hour. Running his hand over the thick stubble on his chin, he snorted at himself in the small looking glass. "You dirty bugger," he murmured to himself, "you need a bath and a good shave, terribly."

Cate had been on deck waiting for him, trying not to fidget with the ribbons of her hat. Brighton looked awful big. Imposing, inviting and frightening were the only words she could think of. Norrington came out of his cabin and turned to address the crew, his tri-cornered hat in his hands.

"As soon as your duties are complete, the entire crew is granted shore leave," Captain Norrington announced. The crew cheered and set about their work with renewed fervor. Fletcher made pretense of going back down into the hold and paused, watching his superior approach Cate, place his hat on his head and offer his arm to her with a smile. Cate smiled sheepishly at him, blushing as she shyly took his arm and was escorted off the ship. Fletcher cackled to himself. They made quite a pair.

"I have a friend who owns a clean, respectable inn here in Brighton," Norrington was saying as they walked up the street. "I was...thinking perhaps you might be able to stay with him and his wife while you locate your family."

Cate paused, taking in this information, focusing on her companion instead of the beautiful buildings they were passing by. "Respec'able? An inn?" she asked nervously.

"Not all taverns are breeding places for disreputable men, Cate," he responded softly, slowing his stride to look at her. He knew what she was thinking, and didn't want her to imagine he was taking her back to the same situation she had just escaped. "There can still be honor in boarding and feeding travelers."

There was another pause as Cate looked up at him. She felt so lost, so frightened and alone in this new place. She didn't belong here, and couldn't have possibly come this far without help. Looking in James' eyes, he saw his concern for her, and also a comfort. He wasn't the sort of man to simply brush her off upon a blackguard. "I trust ye," she said, simply.

After walking awhile in silence, Norrington stopped before the door of an inn that looked like it could have used some paint. Cate looked up at the sign hanging over it, a sailor in a longboat who smiled. Norrington looked down at her with a comforting smile. "It's changed from when I was last here," he admitted, feeling a little self-conscious. "A little weather worn, I will say."

Norrington allowed her to enter the building first, scanning the room and praying for a familiar face. It looked the same as he remembered it. A few tables and chairs had been rearranged, but other than that, it only looked a little older. Norrington smiled. Just like him.

"James Norrington, you old dog, good to see you!" a happy voice rose from the back of the inn. A man a little younger than the Captain made his way around the counter and pulled Norrington into a firm embrace, laughing all the while. "I haven't seen you since the Navy shipped ye out to that settlement in Port Royal!"

"Issac Cuthbert. It's been a long time," Norrington smiled back, the corners of his green eyes crinkling with joy. Catherine decided she liked to see him smile. It made him look younger, and not as tired and defeated. He actually looked happy.

"And welcome miss..." Cuthbert stopped short, his eyes widening when he saw her. Catherine self consciously wiped at her dirty face. She hoped she'd cleaned up at least a little, but she knew her appearance wasn't what respectable folks were hoping for. God, for a good bath!

"James, you sly thing, you've gone and got married!" Issac fairly leaped into the air. "Why didn't you write and tell us?"

Norrington hung his head, rubbing his neck sheepishly, the tired and defeated look creeping back across his face. Cate stepped away from him, feeling the close vicinity she'd kept to his person had somehow violated the proud stature of the captain. She was ashamed she'd brought this upon him, once again feeling alone and out of place. She didn't belong here, especially in the company of so kind and honorable a gentleman as Captain James Norrington, and it was only compounded by this Cuthbert man's assumption.

"Issac, dearest," a feminine voice spoke softly near the innkeeper. Beside Cuthbert stood a woman with golden hair pulled back tidily by pins and combs, her sympathetic blue eyes resting on Cate in her discomfort, and her soft pink lips slightly curled in a sisterly smile. Issac suddenly looked more closely at Norrington's body language and the way Cate was quietly shuffling her feet and hugging her arms to herself. His laughter subsided then.

"James, it is good to see you again," the woman smiled quietly. "But Issac is right. Why didn't you write to tell us you were coming back home? Are you in trouble?"

"Not I," Norrington amended. "It's a long story. It'll need some tea, I think, and possibly some good sherry."

About an hour and a half later, in the kitchen of the inn where Issac and his wife listened to their friend and his young charge over tea, Cate's story unfolded and Norrington's proposition was made. James did most of the talking, while Catherine simply sat and enjoyed the good English tea, taking great care with the pretty ceramic cups so as not to break them. Issac's wife, Abigail, made bread and kept a vigil it seemed over Cate's cup of tea, always making sure she had enough to go with her biscuits. The poor girl looked like she could use the company of a good family, in Abigail's mind. Her eyes were very pretty, and her smile too, when it could be coaxed from her.

"Her mother's family is from Brighton, or near here," Norrington was saying. "But until she finds them, I had hoped she would be able to stay with you and perhaps help with what duties you need doing around the inn."

"Well," Issac said after looking at his wife in a silent conversation. "Seems your coming here with Miss Cate was a bit of a godsend, really. See...Abby here's just got into the family way, n' we'd been lookin' for some hired help. But seein' as we can't give the best wages to a hired girl, we never really went to inquiring after anybody."

There was a silence in which everyone digested all this information.

"But listen here, Missy Cate," Issac said, looking at Catherine with a friendly grin. "If ye help my Abigail about in the kitchen, and help serve the tenants, I promise you'll be fed n' given a warm, dry bed t' sleep in."

Cate broke into a childish grin that threatened to become a thankful sob. "Thank ye, Mister Cuthbert," her voice quivered. Norrington smiled, thanking his old friend with his eyes.


End file.
